Only Human
by Keep.Film.Alive
Summary: A school shooting takes it's tole on Dr. Watson. Johnlock fluff ensues.


Title: Only Human

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Summary: A school shooting takes it's tole on Dr. Watson. Johnlock fluff ensues.

A/N: This was written in Notepad and I don't have spell check on my new laptop yet so I apologize beforehand for any spelling and/or gramatical errors through the fic. I hope you enjoy it anyway, **please review!**

It's as if life had suddenly shifted into slow-motion and someone had hit the mute button. Walking down the monochrome streets of London, bumping shoulders with stangers with each passing, seeing mouths move and cars drive by but hearing only that of pure golden silence, his hands still felt gloved in those uncomfortable blue things stained with blood, that nasty shade of purple nearly took over his vision completely. He was used to blood, used to bullet wounds and death and doctors shouting orders and the beeping from the machines and the smell, bloody hell, that smell. He was used to working with adults, the blood of adults on his hands, the bullet wounds being in adults, deaths of adult patients...

Before he realized it, John had pushed open the doors to Lestrade's office, finding Greg, Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan turning and stopping mid-sentence. He looked at the pictures and papers spread out on the desk and knew immediately. His heart sank to his stomach in an instant, his gaze following shortly. Sherlock stood with a smile, unaware of John's perdicament.

"John, good, I was hoping you'd ar-"

"I can't." Sherlock's eyes narrowed only a fraction, curiousity striking his features.

"I haven't even told you the case yet."

"School shooting. Six dead, four wounded as of eleven twenty-seven this morning. Ages of the six dead: two thirteen year olds, one fourteen year old, one seventeen year old and two eighteen year olds. The shooter killed himself before he could be captured." John lifted his hand to his stomach and braced himself for vomiting, his other hand reached for the nearest object to support him. He needed to get out of there, he needed to drink, he needed to lock himself away in a dark dark room and drink and cry and he shot the next three sentences out as fast as he could and bolted out the door. "Three of which died at my hands. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't work this case. You're on your own."

"Christ-" Greg lifted his hands to the top of his head and twisted his face in a mix of disbelief and pitty. Sherlock followed John through the window with his eyes until he was completely out of sight. Indeed, he felt confused as to what the problem was, but he knew that he didn't like how wrong John looked just now. He looked like he was in pain, sick, about to throw up, zoned out, almost the way he did that day when he pushed through the crowd of people to fall on his knees claiming "He's my friend". No, Sherlock didn't like it, not one bit. Then again, he never liked when John wasn't happy. An unhappy John is an unhappy home. After all, John is Sherlock's home.

Luckily, the case was easy and was finished within several hours, the child who had committed the shooting and killed himself had recently been involved in some online twisted religious group and had misinterpereted the words of their leader, believing that the leader was telling them to kill the sinners that prey on the weak such as themselves. Basically, he attempted to kill the top ten bullies on his list that made his life a living hell and then take himself out in order to complete the ritual that led him to a pure and happy afterlife or some nonsense. Sherlock was home by sundown, pep in his step, taking the stairs two at a time, it had certainly been an interesting day but now it was time to take care of his John...

"John?" He called out. The sitting room was empty, no one in the kitchen or bathroom. Sherlock stopped before the stairway to John's room and looked up at the door. "John?" He called again and was answered with more silence. He climbed up the steps quietly, avoiding all the spots that creak and walked up to the door, resting his ear against the wood slowly. He didn't have to listen hard to hear the sobbing and swish of the liquid in the bottle as it was gulped down swiftly. Sherlock sighed and turned the knobb, entering the dark room, seeing what he expected to see. John sat on the floor, in a t-shirt and pyjama pants, two empty whiskey bottles by his feet, a half empty one in hand, the free hand whiping his tears away sloppily as if it'll make him look more presentable to his flatmate and lover. John gazed up at Sherlock who was outlined by the light of the hallway through the door until it shut behind him. Sherlock removed his scarf and jacket, placing them on a chair near the door and walked up to John, plopping right down next to him. Sherlock tilted his head towards John's, allowing the doctor to rest his against it.

"You probly dun get what th' big deal is, bu thas okay. I dun really espect ya to. I'll esplain it to ya tamarrow when I feel like it. I jus... I jus can't. Right now. I can't." Sherlock remained silent as John took another swig. In the end, it seemed that it didn't matter if he had remained silent or not because John began shaking and burst into a fit of sobs against his shoulder shortly after taking that drink. "They were just kids, Sherlock, it's not right, they had their whole lives ahead of 'em. Their lives were in my hands, damnit, I could have saved them, I could have done it if I were faster, I wasn't fast enough, Sherlock, I killed them. I killed those kids, oh god, what have I done? What's wrong with me? Why wasn't I fast enough? They could still be alive, they could still be bloody breathing, fuck!" Sherlock wasn't sure why but he found himself moving. He pulled the half empty bottle out of John's hand and set it by the foot of the bed, he then wrapped his arm snug around John's chest and hoisted him up to his bed, moving the covers before letting him down gently.

"Come now, John, let's get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning after some rest."

"Oh, shut up, thas my line." He couldn't see it but Sherlock knew there was a smile fighting it's way to John's lips, despite the doctor's voice still forced from the crying. Still, it was better than nothing. Sherlock srugged off his suit jacket and un-tucked his shirt, kicking his shoes off and tossing his belt aside. John sniffled and whimpered softly, trying his damndest to hold back the tears threatening to fall again. Long, unseemingly strong arms wrapped around his body, pulling him close after pulling the blankets over them. Sherlock knew John wanted to cry more, he didn't like anything about John crying but he knew that John crying himself to sleep would be much faster than him spending all of his energy trying to hold it all back for hours on end. He kissed his doctor on the head sweetly.

"It's alright, John. I'm not observing, I'm not deducing, I'm not picking you apart. You can cry. It's okay to cry, John. I'm here for you, I'll hold you all night, I won't get up for anything, so cry and tell me everything you're feeling." John smiled and bit back a laugh, it was sweet enough for Sherlock to listen to him spill his heart out over humany wumany stuff but to actually tell him that he wouldn't deduce him or pick him apart for crying really was a bit of a jump for the consulting detective.

"I think I'll jus stick ta cryin, if thas alright witya." Sherlock smiled a small, genuine smile.

"Whatever you like." John buried his face into Sherlock's shirt and tightened his hold on his lover.

"I luff ya, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John."


End file.
